


See Him, Who Sees Through Me

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates
Genre: Invisible Kingdom | Revelation Route, M/M, No Spoilers, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Second Person, Romance, i'm a big fan of imperfect relationships, self-deprecating language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 07:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11755188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Leo describes Takumi.





	See Him, Who Sees Through Me

He is beautiful.

Not long after waking, his silhouette is lined with morning sun. His stance is tall, but his walk is not necessarily confident, as you have come to know (with a feeling you are reluctant to call heartbroken) that he tends not to think much of himself, though in him you see everything.

He is vain. 

Another trait you have become accustomed to, though there is discord between this and what he generally thinks of himself. It's a mask, a ruse, a façade. You have torn this apart on occasion, as if toying with him at times, as if you truly have some sort of interest in him at others, as if you want to save him, rarely. 

He is kind.

It is not your first impression, but rather one that required your presence at just the right place at just the right time. For in the beginning, his manner was curt, impersonal—distant, if you ever decided to give him the courtesy of doubt, leaving the matter as a question of whether he is worth your time, rather than assuming that he is not. And perhaps this doubt was well-placed, or maybe it was a waste because recently you've found that your mind wanders to him in excess.

He is cruel.

Usually this can be understood. Usually this can be forgiven. Usually he realizes when he goes overboard. Often, however, this does not happen until it is too late, until after you have said one, two—too many harsh words back to remind him of his place, until after you've hurt him to an even greater extent than what he had unleashed on you. Then you know that you will have to wait a day—which might extend into a week—for him to approach you once more because you know you most certainly will not seek him.

He is reliable. 

It is a part of him that makes you wonder if he may well be more mature than you are, because he is the one who tries to stitch up the tears you've both inflicted upon whatever it is that exists between you two, but you are eager to provide the thread and have learned to always have it at the ready.

He is weak.

No one would dare call him this, and neither do you. At least, not to his face. It is something you have only noted, as something to keep track of, for his mind tends to wander to dark places in which he fails to see light that is right in front of him. He is weak, but you know he can kill, and you know his will can be bent, so you try to tell him that he is strong. You offer yourself to him in case he does break, though you have not informed him of this. Your devotion is still a secret, for you have not even for yourself managed to properly describe what you feel for him.

You think, again, that he is beautiful.

This thought has not left you. Especially not after you meet him by accident on his way back to his quarters from training, him looking disheveled and spent from the long day, and though it may be unfitting for a prince, you think that you might like to see him in such a form in a more private setting. These thoughts give you reason to excuse yourself. You are also returning home from a similar scenario, you figure your leave is justified. And though you chastise yourself for uselessly loafing, you wonder afterward if it was simply your mind playing tricks on you, or if his gaze also lingered for a second too long.

He is keen. 

You curse this. You curse that just when you are starting to understand this man—or are starting to think that you do—he informs you that he knows just as much about you as you do about him, if not more. You scoff; this is a trivial matter, and a childish form of retaliation. Besides, he can't possibly know as much as he claims he does, for if he did he should have already stated that which plagues you most.

He does.

He knows. He lets you know that he knows, though not through words—not at first. He walks toward you, comes a step too close, such that you take a step back, but he spites you once more by closing the gap you had just made in your panic, and you must reprimand yourself for allowing your eyes to wander to the lips your mind has painstakingly tried to reconstruct on numerous other occasions for the pleasure of your own regrettable fantasies.

He tries to understand.

You thought your world would fall apart after he knew. That he would spurn you, that he would scorn you with annoyingly clever phrases that you would laugh off at the time but abuse yourself over after he sends you home with your tail between your legs. But in the excitement of the moment you forgot that he is kind, and he points out that these are only your own insecurities being projected upon reality, and that you tend to live too much within your own mind.

He is unsettling.

He asks you what you want, as if you have the right to decide such a thing for yourself—as if fate is actually offering you a chance to be happy. Your answer is silence, your confidence stripped away, you’re vulnerable and feeling as though the power of speech has abandoned you here. Your answer is a dumb stare. You want him to decide, because you don't want it to be your fault if you disappoint him, especially since you are so poorly accustomed to failure.

He is everything you want.

This is a selfish thought, one that you would be ashamed to divulge, for even if you could wish for the war to end here and now you might reject the opportunity because you are afraid of what might happen if what you two had ended here and now, unresolved, unreciprocated. But maybe, just maybe, your heart shone in your eyes because there is nowhere else his sight strays until he closes the distance between you and him and meets your lips with his own.

He is demanding.

This is too much, you think, feeling as though the ground has suddenly lost its characteristic density and that you may fall through the floor any moment now, though you do acknowledge that this could just be your knees growing weak. You wonder if you could be able to make him undone just as thoroughly as he can to you. You are a hopeless case, too far gone to be saved, too deep into what you finally have the courage to call "love" only due to the fact—this beautiful, tangible, corporeal fact—that his hands are sending shivers down your spine, that whatever you had for him now threatens to explode in your chest, and each beat of your heart seems to echo his name:

_Takumi._

"Leo," he seems to answer you in kind.

Your name is deceivingly sweet on his lips, and you consider whether his lack of talent for magic is a lie because surely you cannot be this enchanted by him all on your own. You want to hear his voice call out for you more, even when the encounter is over and you are not so confused about what is between you two but are still fumbling with what to do next. You want to hear him as a gasp in intimacy, you want to hear your name as a harsh whisper deep into the night, you imagine this indulgence replacing what you would otherwise do on certain specific occasions when sleep does not come easily. No, not a replacement, actually, for this is something else entirely. Something better, something that you cannot do alone.

He is just as wicked as you are, it seems, if not more.

The first time is awful, awkward, angry. You were unable to agree with him, you lacked the patience to wait for him, you failed to listen to him, and you couldn't tell him what you really wanted, thinking you were only acting out of consideration for him. This is what you are reflecting upon when _you_ seek him out for a change, because this is an issue of a different sort than you two are used to, and you aren't sure if he will actually come back to you this time, but you know your brittle pride isn't worth the risk.

He reminds you, again, that you are an idiot. 

And of course, you bicker with him over the meaning of this small and insignificant word, though inside you are relieved that he is willing to accept you. You make an effort the next time, because—though you have not had the chance to tell him so, yet—he means the world to you. 

Consequently, he also has the power to send your world into hell.

He is injured in a recent battle, a horrific blow to a visceral area that has the healers rushing about and you can't help but wish that he had been fighting at your side instead, that he was under your watch, for there is no way you would have let such a thing happen to him. But when the healers and his retainers and your siblings ask what have you been doing idling around the infirmary for so long you tell them you want to make sure your friend is okay, and the words make you wonder again what kind of relationship you have with him, if this is the truth—if this _should_ be the truth—or if you're still hoping your stupid hopeless dreams will come true. It is with this doubt that you decide to leave his side.

He holds grudges.

This is nothing new, but he gives you an unwelcome reminder when he asks why he has barely seen you around camp after his recovery, why it sounds like all you've been doing is holing yourself up in the library or in your quarters, or isolating yourself in the field, training, sending sparks and flames and earth into enemies that aren't there. You don't want to hurt him, is more or less what you say, but he calls you out on your bullshit, and tells you that he can't live without you. And because you've been practicing being a good listener, for his sake, you give in to the whims you know he has even though he does not say them aloud.

He is passionate.

You liken want to a contagion, as he quickly has you feverish with desire—hot, sweaty, and hoarse from your internal conflict of needing to hold in your voice and wanting to scream his name. So you repeat it, over and over, if not by a whisper from your mouth then like a prayer in your mind, as if quantity could make up for volume. Your mouth isn't always free for talking anyway, because when you make love you make sure to love all of him, since you know he often fails to do so.

His body and yours become one.

Despite how you've once mentioned that you'd enjoy hearing him beg for you, you find that you are satisfied enough with his ragged breath puffing desperation against your ear, just as long as his chest is against your back and his arms are around your waist and he is reaching that part inside you that you didn't know could turn you into a complete mess. It is fine if his voice isn't what you imagined it to be, because yours isn't either but you're eager enough to fill in the space.

He is lovely even in the dark, when you can't see him.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't move, or he barely does. You can't see his face because you are at his back, holding him close against you, his body curled to fit the curve of your own, to maximize the feeling of skin against skin. Though he has probably already fallen asleep, you place a gentle kiss on his head. It is probably more for yourself than for him, anyway.

He has terrors.

He wakes you late in the night, shaking and muttering phrases you aren't able to discern, but you rouse him with your fingers, combing back his damp hair, whispering him back to the light he loses sight of in the darkness of his dreams. He turns to face you and laces his fingers with yours, and though your sleep-induced haze prevents you yet from forming a coherent thought, your heart reminds you that you are in love with this man, and that you would give him everything and anything. 

He is yours. 

And you are his.

Maybe you are just too tired, but for once, you are not ashamed of your feelings, and when he is finally lulled to peace, his silhouette aglow with the vague blue of night and moon, he brings your hand up to his lips and you wonder, fleetingly, whether he feels as strongly about you as you do about him. Your last thought before returning to sleep in his company is that it would be—without a doubt—impossible.

But you wouldn't mind if he tried.


End file.
